Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1)

by Malcolm Richards

  As soon as he was gone, Emily picked up the bag of entry keys and the checklist, and headed down to Jerome’s apartment.

  He was out, so she wrote him a brief note, slipped it under his door, then made her way back upstairs to talk to Harriet Golding.

  “Here we are,” said the old woman, setting down the tea tray. “Now tell me everything, you poor girl!”

  Emily recounted yesterday’s events, mentioning how helpful Jerome had been when she’d found herself locked out.

  “He's a good boy, Jerome.” Harriet turned the cups over and placed them onto saucers. “Shame he’s a queer really, or you two would be lovely together.”

  “Where’s Andrew today?” Emily asked, feeling her face heat up. Harriet didn’t mince her words.

  “He's at the unemployment place. They keep trying to send him off to jobs he just can't do. It's his back you see. Arthritis at his age! Poor little bugger. I keep telling him, don't let them put you in a situation where you're going to get into trouble. But he doesn't listen to me! He just does what they tell him to and then before you know it, he's off his feet again, dosed up to the eyeballs on painkillers. It's an unfair system is what it is, Emily. All those bloody scroungers who can work but won't. Meanwhile, it's my poor Andrew who's getting grief. Of course, what he really needs is the love of an honest woman. At least he's got his old mum, eh? Tea?”

  Emily nodded and remembering why she was here, placed two of the keys onto the table.

  “They’ve changed the locks on the front door,” she explained, as Harriet filled their cups. “It means your old key won’t work anymore. You have to use this new one.”

  “Eh? What's that? They’ve changed what?”

  “The entry key to the building,” Emily repeated. “They’ve changed the lock to prevent the thieves from getting in.”

  Harriet waved a dismissive hand. “Oh I don't know anything about that. Explain it to Andrew when he gets back. He’ll be here soon. It's a terrible thing, isn't it? So much crime on the streets. Still, at least you’re safe and sound. Called the police did you?”

  Emily shook her head.

  Harriet pushed a cup of tea towards her, urging her to drink. “Fat lot of good they would have done anyway. Bloody useless the lot of them!”

  It seemed no one was immune from the old woman’s acerbic tongue today.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” Emily said. “The missing persons notice I told you about said Alina went missing on the twenty-fourth of August. It was a Monday. Do you remember Bill the handyman coming around?”

  “Now you’re asking something! I can barely remember last week never mind months ago. What’s that old fool got to do with Allie anyway?”

  Not wanting Harriet’s proclivity for gossip to get the old man into trouble, Emily chose her words carefully. “He may have come up to make some repairs.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know what he’s up to. I keep myself to myself these days. People’s business is people’s business, if you know what I mean. But I do remember something. It must have been around that time because it happened just before Allie went and left Karl.”

  Emily waited as the woman took a sip of tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “I remember hearing a tremendous crash one night. Scared me half to death it did. I was asleep in my bed and for a minute I thought the good Lord had come down to take my soul. But then I heard shouting and I thought, here we go, they’re at it again. Only it wasn’t just them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Harriet took another sip of tea, then reached for a biscuit. “I got out of bed and I went up to the front door to have a listen. Andrew was fast asleep, snoring like a bear. He’s terrible! He could sleep through fire and brimstone that son of mine. Anyway, they were shouting at the top of their lungs, the pair of them. Fighting like cats and dogs. But then I heard a third voice. A woman’s. She wasn’t shouting like they were but whatever she said to them, they both went quiet. In fact, everything went quiet. I took a look through the peephole and I could see light coming out from under the door. I never heard another sound. I waited for a while, but then my old hip started playing me up, so I went back to bed. You know, thinking about it, I didn’t see Allie after that. But like I said, people’s business is people’s business. Whatever happened, she’s best off out of that relationship and away from him.”

  Emily was quiet, absorbing Harriet’s words. Her intercom buzzed across the hall. Anxiety crawled inside her chest.

  “I’d better get that,” she said, rising to her feet. “If you remember anything else ...”

  “You know what you need,” Harriet said, dipping the biscuit into her tea. “A nice class of kiddies to keep you occupied. Stop you dwelling on unpleasant business.”

  ***

  By the time Jerome knocked on her door at a little after seven-thirty, Emily had distributed the remaining keys. Reactions from her fellow tenants had been mostly as expected. She’d avoided their scolding eyes and passive-aggressive comments as she’d checked off names from the list. One or two had been sympathetic—the young woman who lived in number Four, and the young couple with their boisterous three-year-old son—the only child in the building it seemed—from number Two.

  Finally meeting the occupants of apartments Nine and Ten, both male and financial types judging by their sharp suits, had proven fruitless. Emily attempted to strike up conversation in the hope of discerning further information about Alina Engel. All she was able to extract was a strained smile from one and a wary glance from the other.

  Crossing Jerome from the list, she handed him the remaining key.

  “Very cosy,” he said, after giving himself a tour of her apartment. “Looks like you’ve been living here for months.”

  “I like to be organised. Did you bring your password?”

  Jerome pulled out a note pad, flipped to a page and handed it to her. He wandered over to the kitchen saloon doors and peeked in.

  “I have apartment envy. That bastard took half of the furniture when he left. Still owes me for it too.”

  Emily was now sat in front of her laptop at the table. She brought up a list of available wireless connections, found Jerome’s network, and typed in the password.

  “Thanks. I need to get myself online soon.”

  “What happened to being organised? Just use mine until you do. And while we’re on a technology tip, you know the whole point of having a mobile phone is that it’s mobile. Keeping it in a drawer kind of defeats the purpose. What about when people call you?”

  Emily avoided his gaze. “I can call them back.”

  “Is this like a country-living thing? What’s the point of mobile phones, you can’t get a signal anyway? You’re in London now, Emily. There are mobile phone masts coming out of the city’s ass. Anyway, I’m no Sherlock but I’m pretty sure that’s not the real reason.”

  Emily’s phone had been switched off and sat in the kitchen drawer since the day she’d arrived. What was the point of keeping it on? The only person she’d given her new number to was Lewis, and she could guarantee that if she went to the drawer right now and switched the phone back on, there would be nothing from him. No text messages, no voicemail. Which was probably for the best.

  Jerome looked at her, waiting for an answer. To avoid giving him one, she relayed both stories told to her by Bill the handyman and Harriet Golding.

  “Ring any bells?” she asked him when she was done.

  “It’s hard to say. There were so many fights they all kind of rolled into one after a while.”

  “But August the twenty-fourth and the days leading up to it? Smashing a door lock surely would have made some noise.”

  Jerome moved across the room and stared up at the perpendicular grids of light illuminating the windows of the opposite building. Tired from the working day, people were slipping into their evening routines. A shirtless man worked out on his living room floor, performing sets of crunches and push ups. Down a
floor and to the left, a woman sat in an armchair reading the evening newspaper, while another prepared dinner in the kitchen.

  “There’s something relaxing about watching other people's lives, don’t you think? It’s the repetitiveness of it all. The routines, the structure.”

  Emily thought about it, but instead of feeling relaxed, she felt a sudden frustration. “If only people had been paying more attention to Alina’s life.”

  Jerome turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Alina was in an abusive relationship. Everyone knew about it and yet no one lifted a finger to help. Now she’s missing.”

  “Presumed missing,” Jerome corrected her. “And I think you’re being a little unfair. People don’t like to pry. I mean, I didn’t even really know the woman. Where were her friends and family?”

  “Maybe she didn’t have any. It’s always the same tired story. Shout fire and everyone comes running. Shout rape or domestic violence and everybody closes their curtains, pretends they’re not home.”

  Over by the window, Jerome had grown quite still.

  “Not everyone is like that,” he said. “Yesterday you called and I answered.”

  “I know that, and I’m grateful. I just don’t understand why, if people heard Karl hitting Alina, they didn’t call the police.”

  “Maybe they did. You have no idea of who did what because you weren’t here. And I think you’re being very presumptuous.”

  Emily stood up from the computer. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Why does it matter to you so much anyway?” Jerome grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “You didn’t even know her.”

  “What if I’m right?” Emily said. “What if Alina really is missing and no one is doing anything about it? What if she needs help right at this minute? If she was your sister, or your mother, wouldn’t you want to know that she was all right? That she was alive?”

  Jerome shook his head. “You know I came up here to do you another favour, not to be accused of being a bystander watching a car crash.”

  He crossed the room then stopped, spying the bizarre portrait lying face up on the sofa. The fingers of Emily’s right hand scrabbled over the top of her left, her nails grazing the surface of her skin.

  “This isn’t how you make friends,” Jerome said. “I’ve been trying to get to know you but you’ve avoided every question I’ve asked. You keep your phone hidden in a drawer. I haven’t seen a single photograph of anyone anywhere in your apartment. Exactly who is it that’s closing their curtains and pretending they’re not home? Because it’s certainly not me.”

  There was a moment of terrible, awkward silence. Then Jerome lowered his head and stalked out of the apartment.

  Emily remained where she was, growing as still as stagnant water. It had not been her intention to accuse Jerome of anything, but he had heard Karl and Alina fighting on many occasions. And so had Harriet. Why had neither of them called the police?

  Moving over to the laptop, she sat down, a knot of guilt pressing on her sternum. Even if what she had said was true, and she believed that it was, there were subtler words and ways to convey her thoughts. But Jerome had backed her into a corner with his questions, forcing her defences up. She was not ready to share her history with anyone.

  Bringing up a web browser on the laptop screen, she wondered if she would ever be ready. Because that would mean telling the truth, and the truth was something she was yet to come to terms with.

  For now, she needed distraction, and Alina Engel was it. Typing the woman’s name into a search engine, she scanned through the first page of results. There were various social media accounts in German for women sharing the same name, but none of the profile pictures resembled Alina—which was strange because just about everyone was on Facebook these days. It had been months since Emily had dared to log on to her account. She wondered what she would find if she did. That was the thing about social media—cruel words could be said to someone’s face and eventually most would fade, but type them out and post them on the web, and they remained forever; a bloodstain that could not be washed out.

  Emily scrolled through a few more pages, finding only disappointment. She erased Alina’s name from the search engine and typed more words. Seconds later, she scanned through the pages of a missing persons website.

  Hundreds of thousands of people were reported missing each year, she read. Most were tracked down or reappeared again days or weeks later, while others simply vanished. It was unnerving to think about. These days, every corner of every town and city, every store and restaurant, every public building, every station was being watched by CCTV. All of those cameras capturing each person's action, no matter how small, and yet there were those who simply vanished like drops of rain into the ether. All that remained of them were remnants. Sheets pulled back on unmade beds. Strands of hair wrapped around the teeth of combs. Their smell still clinging to clothes that hung like ghosts in darkened wardrobes. Only pictures could prove they were once truly alive, that they were once present. Pictures and bags of clothes left behind on kitchen floors.

  Some chose to leave or had no choice remaining, while others, who were less sound of mind, simply wandered and became lost. Then, there were those who had been taken against their will. Almost always women or children, most ended up on a mortician's slab, while the remainder were never seen again.

  Emily stared at her laptop screen and the faces of the disappeared stared back. Young faces. Old faces. Haunted faces. Happy faces. There were messages from their loved ones, pleading for them to return home. There were appeals to the public to come forward with information. Anguish poured from her screen like a sea of tears, and rising from its depths came Phillip. He wasn't missing—everyone knew where he could be found now—but like the disappeared, he would never be seen again. Like the disappeared, all that was left were remnants.

  Often, Emily closed her eyes and imagined what Phillip had left behind. A bedroom, untouched since that day, with piles of laundry littering the floor and posters of wrestlers tacked to the walls. A video game controller, sitting on the arm of the chair, where no one dared to sit for fear of knocking it from its final resting place. His toothbrush, still in the glass on the bathroom shelf. His coat still hanging on the back of the door.

  Tears burned Emily's eyes. How long would this guilt last? The answer to that question was too cruel to contemplate, and yet it taunted her morning and night.

  Emily wiped her eyes, then typed Alina's name into the website’s search engine. The faces of the disappeared faded into white and were replaced with the words: NO RESULTS FOUND. Was it true then? Had Alina returned to Germany where she now led a happier, safer life? Thousands of people went missing every day. Did that mean every one of their cases remained open? Did it mean every one of them was even reported? And what of all of those bodies lying refrigerated in mortuaries, unidentified and unclaimed? Who were they? Where did they come from? An image came to Emily's mind—Alina laid out on cold steel, her skin as blue as eggshells, her neck stretched beyond all human dimensions.

  Emily paced over to the window. She was getting nowhere and her frustration began to weigh heavy on her shoulders. She turned and stared at Alina’s portrait. A thought struck her. Who had painted it? Moving over to the sofa, she picked up the painting and examined the canvas. There were initials scribed in the bottom right hand corner: AC.

  Her eyes moved from the painting to the landscape print on the wall. Seconds later, Alina’s portrait hung in its place, her lingering gaze roaming the living room, pulling at Emily’s insides.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Leaving The Holmeswood through the rear exit, Emily hurried past the dumpsters, almost trampling a homeless man asleep in a swathe of soiled blankets and strips of cardboard. Reaching the end of the alley, she stepped out onto a narrow side street. People were coming in thick and fast, and it took her a moment to insert herself into the flow. Once she was in, she floated along like
a leaf in a stream.

  She could have taken an underground train, but descending stairs and escalators deep beneath the city was a concept that left her struggling for breath. And yet millions of commuters did it every day, pushing and shoving, elbow to face, squeezing out the air, until train carriages and platforms resembled livestock in transit.

  Buses were a little better, but then you had to contend with gridlocked traffic and drivers who, when the lights finally turned green, drove like police officers in pursuit of criminals.

  For now, Emily kept her feet firmly on the ground, making her way to the bank to pick up her replacement bankcard, then continuing on towards Islington. Moving past the bars and restaurants of Upper Street, she crossed the road and came to a stop. Through the tinted front window she could see Paulina Blanchard, who sat behind a meticulously ordered desk.

  Sensing eyes upon her, the woman scowled and waved Emily in.

  “Good morning, Miss Swanson,” Paulina said, her eyes fixed on her computer screen. “Did you find your way all right?”

  Emily nodded as she pulled out the checklist. When Paulina showed no interest in taking it from her, she dropped it onto the desk.

  “If we could sort out payment for the new keys before you go,” the letting agent said.

  “Of course.”

  Paulina made swift work of the transaction. When she was done, she handed Emily a receipt, then returned to her work. Emily hovered on the other side of the desk.

  “Is there something else I can help you with, Ms Swanson?” Paulina didn’t look up.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the former tenants.”

  “Oh? This isn’t about unpaid bills I hope.”

  Emily shook her head. “He left a lot of things behind, including his wife’s clothing.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a forwarding address for Mr Henry if that’s what you’re after,” Paulina said. “I’m sure I’ll still have his number on file though. Obviously, I can’t give it to you—customer confidentiality and all that. Did you want me to tell him something?”